Fezco was never one to rush a moment.

His whole life had been built on survival—on quick thinking, on knowing when to run and when to stay. But with you, it was different. Time slowed. The world outside didn’t exist. There was no weight of responsibility, no tension coiled in his muscles, no lingering paranoia in the back of his head.

Just you.

His girl.

Lying beside him, skin still warm from his touch, sheets tangled around your legs as you absentmindedly traced patterns on his chest. He swore he could still feel your breath against his neck from earlier, the way you'd whispered his name when the world had narrowed down to nothing but the two of you.

And damn, if that wasn’t something he never thought he’d have.

Soft moments like these? He wasn’t used to them. Wasn’t used to being taken care of the way you did. The way you looked at him—like he wasn’t just some drug dealer, some guy who’d seen too much too young. Like he was just Fez, your Fez, the one who knew exactly how you liked your coffee, who held your hand under the dinner table, who listened to your ramblings about shit he didn’t always understand but loved hearing anyway.

It wasn’t just about the sex, though that had been insane—slow, deep, like he was trying to make up for all the times he never got to have something real. But it was this, too. The after. The way you rested against him like he was something safe, something worth holding onto.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing a lazy hand down your back, his fingers tracing the soft dip of your spine.

“Damn, ma,” he murmured, voice slow, thick with exhaustion but warm with something deeper. He tilted his head down, looking at you with half-lidded eyes, a small, tired smirk tugging at his lips. “You tryna kill me or somethin’?”